


Bits and Bobs: Archive of Short One-Shots

by Lacylu42



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Marauders Friendship, Marauders' Era, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 21:00:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9257054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacylu42/pseuds/Lacylu42
Summary: Archiving short one-shots that were originally posted to my LJ many moons ago...





	1. Chapter 1

Title: Hufflepuffs Do It In The Dirt  
Rating: PG-13 (depending on what you compare it to, I suppose)  
Words: ~1,350  
Pairings: H/G, Justin Finch-Fletchly/Susan Bones  
Warnings: PWP -- a little smut, a little voyeurism. Set sometime during HBP.  
  
For [](http://lacylu42.livejournal.com/tag/my_fic#)[**jpxthethoughts**](http://lacylu42.livejournal.com/tag/my_fic#) who asked for "Justin Finch-Fletchly/Susan Bones smut" in reference to his icon 

Hufflepuffs Do It In The Dirt...

 

 

"I cannot believe you want to talk about this now!" Ginny says, fighting to hold her anger in check. She plants her fists on her hips and fixes Harry with a look of disapproval that mimics her mother's with frightening accuracy.

Harry shrugs halfheartedly, avoiding her eyes as he works on the lock with his knife. "I didn't say I believed it," he says mildly.

"You believed it enough to ask if it was true," Ginny retorts. She does not want to admit how embarrassed she is by the question, does not want to admit that she too has heard the rumors.

"Forget I said anything, then," Harry says. He grimaces, sticking his tongue out the side of his mouth. "Bloody thing. I wonder if Sprout charms these locks with something other than--"

"It isn't true," Ginny says.

Harry glances at her over his shoulder. "Which part?"

"Any of it. I didn't shag Michael -- or Dean, or anyone else, for that matter. I've never -- I mean, I'm not--"

"Got it!" Harry says, finally managing to break through the charm on the lock. The greenhouse doors open with a soft click. Harry stands, dusting his hands on his trousers and carefully putting the knife back in its sheath in his pocket.

Ginny's crosses her arms, avoiding Harry's gaze. He reaches out to her, laying a soft hand on her arm. "I didn't think that you had," he says quietly.

Ginny glances at him and blushes. "Come on," she says quickly. "Help me find my notes before someone comes by and wonders why the greenhouse is unlocked."

A blast of hot, humid air greets them as they push into the quiet, leafy cave of Greenhouse Four. Inside, the coppery afternoon light is tinted a weird emerald color creating a premature twilight. Harry slips off his glasses and wipes them on his sleeve as the fog over in the thick, moist air.

"It's all to do with that cow, Romilda," Ginny growls as she goes around to her workstation, scouring the potting benches and the damp earthy floor for her missing notes. "If I ever catch her at it, the little harpy, I'll pull all of her hair out and then start a rumor that she's bald because she let Walter Harper tie her braids to a bedpost and it backfired."

Harry gives a snort of laughter. A nearby snapdragon takes offense and tries unsuccessfully to bite his ear.

Ginny smiles at Harry as he bats the flower away, her anger and embarrassment ebbing. "What about you, then? You and Cho were pretty hot and heavy there for a while, from what I've heard."

Harry blushes scarlet even as he tries to laugh it off. "Well, you heard wrong," he says. "She was too busy crying on me most of the time to do much -- much of anything."

Ginny grins at the hitch in his voice and Harry, knowing he when he is beat, grabs her and kisses her fiercely. When they break apart, Ginny stays close to him, the heat of her body intensified by the warmth of the greenhouse.

"I'm glad," Ginny says. Harry kisses her again. It is so easy with her. So easy to forget everything else when she is near, when he can lose himself in the sight of her, the feel of her, her sound and scent.

Ginny sighs as they pull apart once again. "Come on," she says, taking his hand. "Let's try the next greenhouse. We were pruning the petunias today when--"

As they round the corner into the adjoining corridor with Greenhouse Five, Ginny stops speaking abruptly, cut off by a low moan from somewhere between the rows of plants. Harry nearly trips over something in the aisle. His eyes widen as he realizes it is a pile of clothes. He looks up as Ginny puts her finger to her lips and motions for him to follow her.

Two school robes, two white school shirts, and two black and yellow Hufflepuff ties make a trail down the third row. It's hard to see in the fading evening light, but there, between the exploding petunias and the snapdragons, someone -- two someones are lying in the dirt. At first, all Ginny can make out is a mess of thick strawberry blonde hair escaping from its careful plait and two large, male hands running through it like sunlight. Then, the man -- boy -- raises his head, anointing the girl's neck, shoulder, chest with a trail of kisses.

It is Justin Finch-Fletchly, lying there, shirtless in the dirt; muscles that Ginny never would have suspected gleam in the strange emerald light with a fine sheen of sweat from the warmth of the greenhouse. Dark curls, damp and clinging to his forehead, crown his face like a Roman emperor.

Harry makes a sort of strangled noise in the back of his throat. Susan Bones is tracing her fingers down Justin's spine, a rosy flush coloring her pale, freckled skin as she arches into each of his kisses. One of the straps of her baby pink cotton bra has slipped off her shoulder, revealing a tantalizing expanse of skin from collarbone to cleavage, her soft reddish hair just brushing against the curve of her neck.

Embarrassed, Harry turns to look for Ginny, but she has ducked down behind the nearest potting bench.

Justin groans again as Susan drags her fingernails slowly down his sides. One of his hands escapes the tangle of her hair to cup her breast, his thumb racing back and forth across the round pinnacle of her nipple, erect with excitement. Ginny licks her lips as Susan tilts her head back, eyes closed in silent pleasure.

Harry moves silently to crouch behind Ginny, his hand on her shoulder for balance. Her skin is hot beneath the thin fabric of her blouse. He can feel the blood pounding through him, thrumming loudly in his ears. He slides his hand down Ginny's arm, searching for her hand, finding instead the soft, smooth skin on the inside of her wrist. He imagines he can hear her drawing in a sharp breath at the feel of his fingers, imagines he can make out the quickening of her pulse as it tattoos a message of desire against the pads of his fingers.

Susan bends one knee, her leg moving up the outside of Justin's, her grey, pleated skirt falling away to reveal the creamy skin of her thigh. Justin's other hand escapes the tangles of her hair, coming to rest on that forbidden territory.

Then Susan pushes him gently, her hands on his shoulders, and Justin obligingly sits back. Nimbly, Susan manages to undo the fly of his trousers, so that his bright yellow boxer pants are visible beneath

Ginny's fingers reach out and trace a line down the center of Harry's palm, making him shudder with sensation. His trousers are becoming uncomfortable, pulled tight across his groin as he and Ginny squat amongst the vines, and roots, and table legs behind the potting bench.

Susan arches her back again, pressing up against Justin's body as his hand disappears beneath the folds of her skirt. Ginny inhales sharply, the damp, earthy smell of soil and the heady perfume of the exotic flowers filling her head with intoxication. She knows they shouldn't be here, that Susan would die a thousand deaths if she knew that Harry and Ginny were watching, but somehow, this Susan seems miles removed from the round-faced girl Ginny knows who turns beet red the minute anyone mentions kissing. This Susan is sultry, sexy, confident and sure. Ginny twines her fingers through Harry's wondering vaguely if she too could find that kind of power inside herself.

Harry squeezes Ginny's fingers and motions almost imperceptibly to the door. She nods, looking up at him through her lashes, her lips parted ever so slightly, and a flood of relief and desire wash over him. All thoughts of notes and Herbology exams have fled; his mind is fixated on a singular problem now of finding a place where they can be alone.


	2. A Very Punny Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not my best work, but there you have it. Hope it gives you a giggle, krislaughs:
> 
> Prompt: a bad pun | a glass of champagne | a tree falls and no one is there to hear it | ~1,500 words | PG

"Ow!"

"Dammit, James--"

"Ugh! Sirius! What did you have for supper? Your breath--"

"Shhhh!"

"Guys," Peter whispered theatrically as he narrowly avoided having his face smashed in by one of Remus' elbows, which everyone knew were deadly pointy, "maybe this wasn't such a good idea."

"Of course it wasn't a good idea!" Sirius scoffed. "Good ideas aren't any fun."

"Shut up, the both of you!" James snapped, rather louder than he had intended. He lowered his voice, looking up from his spell work: "If you're not going to be helpful, then just-- Aha!"

With a soft click, the lock opened under James' charm. With a smirk at the other boys huddled around him, he pushed the double doors open with a grand gesture, revealing the cavernous darkness of the Hogwarts library.

Moving together like a many-legged skrewt, the boys shuffled into the room, quietly shutting the doors behind them. Only then did they throw off James' new invisibility cloak.

"Explain to me again why we're breaking into the library at one o'clock in the morning?" Remus asked around a ponderous yawn.

"Research," James said as he lit his wand and looked around the room like a greedy kid in a candy store.

"And this needs to be done in the dragon-arsed middle of the night, because..." Remus began scathingly, but James wasn't listening. He was already walking across the stone floor of the foyer towards the stacks. Intrigued, the others followed in his wake.

James walked straight past the circulation desk and the card catalogue. Sirius rubbed the back of his left hand and glared at the many little drawers as they passed, having not yet forgiven it for biting him when he had tried to look up flying motorbikes a few weeks earlier. James ignored the research section filled with the intricate maps and atlases that Peter could spend hours pouring over, went through the Arithmancy and Astronomy shelves, and right up to the purple velvet ropes which clearly delineated the regular sections of the library from the Restricted Section.

"Ah," Remus said in answer to James' brilliant grin.

"In there?" Sirius asked. "Don't be daft. There are bound to be--"

"Aren't," James said simply.

"But there might be--"

"Nope."

"What about--"

"Uh-uh."

Sirius crossed his arms over his chest stubbornly. "Well then," he said, challenging James to put his ridiculous claims to the test.

James bowed elaborately and reached out for the hook that held the rope suspended across the entrance. With the eyes of his three mates trained on him, James unhooked the rope and let it fall to the ground. Three identical gasps of suspense could be heard in the still darkness of the library.

Nothing happened.

"C'mon you nancies," James said with an impish grin as he crossed the threshold. The others hung back warily, waiting to see if James would trip an alarm or burst into flames or if the books would fly off the shelves and beat him to death with the very knowledge he coveted. 

Nothing stubbornly continued to happen.

Peter looked at Remus who shrugged. Remus looked at Sirius who was still scowling with narrowed eyes at the retreating form of their leader as he disappeared into the uncharted territory.

"Hey! James! Wait up!" Peter hissed as he dashed frantically into the darkness after James' retreating light.

Sirius looked at Remus who was pulling his wand out of his back pocket.

"I am fairly sure that this is about the single most ridiculous idea James has ever had," Sirius said thoughtfully. "He could very well be going mad. If Pince ever finds out that we broke into her library..."

Remus chewed on his lip. "If a tree falls, and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?"

Sirius blinked at him. 

"Or, more to the point," Remus clarified, "if James has an idea, and we all go along with it, is it still mad?"

Sirius didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing, deciding instead to look as nonchalant as possible.

"Shall we, then?" Remus asked, lighting his own wand. 

Sirius made an expression, which clearly conveyed that he could take it or leave it thank you very much. "Can't be shown up by Pettigrew," he said with a sigh, as though the whole ideal were terribly trying.

Remus grinned and they set off into the stacks.

* * *

"What shall we look at first?" Peter whispered from somewhere behind James' right elbow. His eyes shone wide and anxious in the wavering light. James held his wand up high and squinted at the titles of the books in the dim light. They seemed to be in the Herbology section; most of these books seemed to be about dangerous plants. James had no truck with plants -- even man-eating ones.

"This way," he whispered in as deep and mysterious a voice as he could muster.

* * *

"Blurgh!" Sirius said, shoving the book he had been looking at back into place. "Necromancy."

"Let's go this way," Remus suggested. 

"Yeah, alright," Sirius replied distractedly. He was busy wiping his hand on his trousers, as he had just realized what the necromancy book was likely bound in.

"What do you reckon James has planned?" Remus asked as they rounded a corner into a rather disappointing section of thick, dusty history books. "What's his scheme?"

"Merlin knows," Sirius replied lightly, running his finger over the spines of family histories looking for the Bs. There were three books about the Noble and Moste Ancient House of Black, including one that might very well have been stained with something that looked rather horrifically like blood, but he did not take them down. He recognized them all from his father's library.

"He must have a scheme," Remus said thoughtfully, as he squatted down, peering at the books on the lowest shelf.

Sirius snorted. "Don't give him too much credit," he said. "He just talks and talks until he either runs out of big words or comes up with an idea. Let's find the Potions section."

As they emerged from their section, they spotted James and Peter coming out of the stacks opposite. Between them was a dark and rather terrifying staircase.

"What do you reckon?" Sirius asked

James placed one hand over his heart, holding his lit wand high over his head with the other. "This, gentlemen," he said ponderously, "is our Everest."

Only Peter had the decency to look suitably impressed.

"Prat," Sirius said.

"Race you to the top," Remus said with a smirk, and he pelted towards the inky blackness.

The Potions section, as it happened was at the top of the stairs, and Sirius quickly became lost in a large leather tome called Ars Ebrietas that seemed to be making soft cooing noises as Sirius stared at it, utterly enthralled. 

Realizing he had lost his partner in crime, Remus continued on, running his fingers gently over the spines of the books and reading the titles, like "Dangerous Poisons", by Cy O'Nide and "Running With The Herd: A Complete Guide to Animagery", by Stan Pede.

"Wow," James muttered with reverence a few shelves over. Anything that made James Potter sound that love struck probably meant trouble, so Remus hurried over to investigate.

He found James sitting cross-legged on the floor in the Muggle studies section with a smallish paperback open in his lap. Peter was doing his level best to look interested while stealing furtive glances at some of the more interesting books on the shelves.

"What's that, then?" Remus asked.

James held it up for him, large eyes shining with possibility behind his glasses. The cover of the book read "Opening Other People's Doors -- The Muggle Way" by Mikey Fitz-Yorlock.

"Did you know," James asked, running his fingers lovingly down a page of the book, "that Muggles have ways of opening locks without magic? Think how useful this could be!"

"What?" Remus said, regarding the book skeptically, "For when Pince snaps your wand for breaking into the Restricted Section, you mean?"

James snorted and went back to his book, but Remus was gratified to see that Peter was looking nervously at his own wand.

"This," Sirius said suddenly from behind them, "is the best. Book. Ever."

James, Remus, and Peter all turned to see Sirius with the large leather tome he had been reading in one hand and a glass of champagne he had conjured in the other. "Just you wait until I figure out how to do Firewhiskey!" he exclaimed, glee written as clear as day across his face.

"I love Research," James said to no one in particular as Peter and Remus hurried over to see what Sirius had discovered.


	3. Illicit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ignipes:
> 
> Prompt: spicy soup | scarves | and the line, "I can"t believe you had the audacity to question my superhuman abilities in front of that nice puffin." | ~1,700 words | PG

"Whose idea was this?" Sirius asked, a slow smile creeping across his lips. He was lounging against a pile of silk pillows with one arm draped over his knee, feeling exactly like a young raja--only without all the elephants. He had on a dark red, velvet blazer, which James had tried unsuccessfully to steal, and felt terribly regal. He flexed his fingers languorously; even his fingernails were glowing like jewels in the dim light of the paper lanterns hanging above.   
  
"Mine!" James declared imperiously, waving an arm over his head. He, too, was lounging carelessly on a stack of pillows, head hanging over the edge more or less upside down, and glasses slightly askew. "All ideas are mine!"   
  
Peter snorted incredulously. James blinked at him for a moment and sniffed. "Well. All the good ones anyway."  
  
"Actually," Remus said, his face awash in red light from the nearest lantern. "This idea was mine." He was sitting in the middle of the room fiddling with a gold and brass contraption that had recently become Sirius' new Favorite Thing In All The World.  
  
"The Gillyweed was mine," James persisted. "The _idea_ of Gillyweed was mine. And the soup. I ordered the soup."  
  
"I need a pee," Peter said suddenly.  
  
James snickered.   
  
"Thanks for the news flash," Remus muttered. He was still fiddling, adjusting knobs, and tapping the green glass reservoir where the water was bubbling away happily. Always fiddling, Sirius thought, though he had already forgotten who or what. Fiddle: to fiddle; the act of fiddling.  
  
Peter seemed to be having trouble finding his footing. "Why's't moving -- stop with the sway -- woah." His first attempt at vertical failed miserably, and he landed on his bum amid the cushions, much to James' cackling delight.  
  
"Hey!" Remus scolded, swatting at Peter's sock-clad foot when it came dangerously near the Contraption. "Watch the thing!"  
  
"Sorry," Pete mumbled, rolling off to one side and quickly upsetting an abandoned chessboard on a cushion.  
  
"Bloody good idea," Sirius finished, reaching for one of the pieces, which squirmed awkwardly in his hand. At least, he was pretty sure that was his hand. It looked like his hand. "I think he's trying to tell me something," Sirius said, holding the little figure up to his ear and shaking it.  
  
"Don't bother," Remus said, waiving a hand dismissively. "The white knight always talks backwards. He has nothing to say."  
  
Peter stood, still a little wobbly, and made for the exit with his arms outstretched. Pushing aside a thick silk curtain, he found a wall. This seemed to baffle him. "Er..." he said quietly, moving to the next curtain and finding the same thing. The third time, he stuck his whole head behind the ornate silk drapery, then his body, and emerged from the other side with the fabric around his head like a scarf.  
  
"The dance of the seven veils," Remus said with a nod. "Whose head do you want, Wormtail?"  
  
"This soup," James said, pushing himself into a sitting position, "is brilliant." His glasses slipped off his nose and landed on the pillows next to him with a dull thump that sent little waves through the air. Sirius tried to catch one on his tongue.  
  
"Its just soup," Remus replied, drawing one of the tubes from the contraption and placing it between his lips.   
  
"It is not _just_ soup," James insisted, holding the bowl up to the light and squinting at it myopically. "It's _spicy_ soup. The spices are the thing. I'm sure of it."  
  
Sirius watched as Remus closed his eyes and inhaled the thick, sweet smoke. Two perfect crescents of dark lashes pressed, like the petals of dried flowers, against his pale cheeks.   
  
The water in the belly of the beast bubbled with mirth.  
  
Sirius' mouth went dry.  
  
"Er..." Peter muttered. Sirius turned his head in surprise, and the world took a few seconds to catch up. Peter was standing behind him, patting the curtains hanging against the walls as he skirted the perimeter of the room. "I'm sure there was a door here at one point," he said apologetically to Sirius. Sirius nodded and watched Peter bobbing up and down.  
  
"Listen to the dormouse," Remus suggested, passing the tube to Sirius with long fingers that ended in stars. "Feed your head."  
  
The end of the tube was shaped like a golden dragon, mouth open wide. Tiny tendrils of smoke, tinged green by the Gillyweed, escaped between his fangs. The dragon had sparkling red eyes. Rubies, Sirius thought and wondered if Remus ate rubies to make his lips so--  
  
In the dim, silk-shrouded depths of the vermillion room, he took the gilded dragon's tongue between his lips. The smoke filled his lungs and flowed to his brain like a thick green fog roiling with words and images he was fairly certain weren't his own.  
  
"This soup might actually be _too_ good," James said suspiciously. "In fact, I'm fairly certain that it is. Too good by far."  
  
Sirius exhaled and opened his eyes. Remus was wearing a halo. He had finally stopped fiddling and was lying on his back with his feet in the air, toes wriggling. They moved like shooting stars against the dark velvet nothing of space. Sirius wondered when the room had gotten so big when Peter floated by, still poking the curtains.  
  
"It's a plot," James said from somewhere very far away. "A plot by the spice cartel. They're plotting to take over!" As Peter passed, James grabbed him by the cuff of his trousers and shook vigorously.   
  
"I just want a pee!" Peter moaned, slumping against the nearest bit of space as James continued to accost his ankle.   
  
"When did you get so starry?" Sirius asked, and Remus turned his head toward him, looking at him with big, satellite eyes like two dark looking glasses.  
  
"Everything is made of stars," Remus replied, and Sirius watched the words drip from his lips like droplets of sticky sweet liquor. "That's what Muggles think. A star dies and becomes a flower, or a bird, or a really terrible red jacket." His arm shot out suddenly and poked Sirius in the arm. "Even you. Dying stars. Dead stars. Stellar matter."  
  
"Stellar," Sirius repeated, staring at the spot on his arm where Remus had poked him. "How do you know so much?"  
  
Remus shrugged and his shoulders rolled like waves on the sea.  
  
"This soup is evil!" James shouted suddenly, and Sirius turned to stare at him. He was pointing a shaking finger at the bowl at his feet. "It's watching me," he told Sirius with wide eyes. "Don't eat it. It'll get you from the inside. Then the Ministry will know where you are. It's the spices." He tapped his index finger against the side of his nose sagely and then pointed it back at Sirius.  
  
Sirius turned back to say something to Remus and found, much to his surprise, that the space between them had diminished considerably. "Hmm..." Remus said, resting his head against Sirius' knee. "Too bad. I quite liked the soup."  
  
"What have you done with the door?" Peter cried, his voice edging closer to panic.  
  
" _They_ took it!" James shouted, leaping to his feet and nearly falling over in the process.  
  
"Who?" Peter asked.  
  
James grabbed him by the shoulders and leaned down until their foreheads were almost touching. " _Them_ ," he hissed. "The soup cartel! They _know_ you need a pee, and they're hiding the door from you!"  
  
"Down with soup!" Remus cheered, rolling his head to the side so that it was resting on Sirius' thigh. He left trails of stardust behind when he moved, and Sirius watched with fascination.   
  
"Get it back?" Peter pleaded as James took a step backward and fell over his cushions with a grunt.  
  
"Alright," Remus said seriously, sitting up so fast that it made Sirius' head spin. "Alright. Here's what you do."  
  
Peter watched him, his round face glowing with perspiration and radiating attention.  
  
"First," Remus instructed, holding out his arms like he was conducting a symphony. "First you must drink the soup."  
  
"Can't," Peter whined, dancing from one leg to the other. "M'already 'bout to explode!"  
  
"I'll do it," James said stolidly. He pushed himself up on one elbow, reaching for the offending bowl. "We who are about to drink, salute you," he said lifting the bowl in a toast. Sirius saluted elaborately as James threw his head back and drank. They all waited with anticipation as he lowered the bowl and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. For a moment, James stared at the empty bowl with narrowed eyes and an unreadable expression.  
  
"Bloody _brilliant_ soup," he whispered.  
  
"Now," Remus continued, "the door will appear."  
  
"Where!" Peter gasped, spinning on his heel eagerly.  
  
Remus closed his eyes for a moment, his arms waving like serpents in front of him. Then suddenly he closed his fist, his forefinger pointing just over James' left shoulder. "There," he proclaimed.  
  
Rushing forward, stumbling over his own feet, Peter ran for the red silk panel Remus was pointing at. Shoving it aside with a grand gesture, he revealed the door by which they had come in.  
  
Sirius turned to look at Remus with awe. "How did you do that?" he asked.  
  
Remus retracted his arm and blew gently across the tip of his pointing finger. "Magic," he explained with the arch of his brow.  
  
"Pfft!" James scoffed loudly, looking furtively from side to side as though he expected a dozen listeners behind every cushion. "There's no such thing!"  
  
Remus frowned deeply as he crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back against Sirius, a warm weight like embers and Sunday afternoons. "I can't believe you had the audacity to question my superhuman abilities in front of that nice puffin," he said to James.  
  
Sirius let out a slow breath from between pursed lips and watched it swirl away like petals on the wind. "Whose idea was this?" he asked with a slow smile creeping across his lips.


	4. Ghost Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In honor of ignipes birthday I went ahead and wrote a little birthday fic for you based on the song: "Ghost Stories" by Sting. sheafrotherdon helped me out when I got bogged down in the middle and wrote number six. =D

1.  
For Remus, there was no joy in sunsets. Not now when he had no one to share them with.

A flock of geese flew past in an unsteady V, headed ever south. Another winter. He could last that long. Come the spring, he would return to them like a bird to its nest. They could enjoy the thaw together. 

He squinted into the setting sun; the orange gold light seemed to glint off one of the birds in a conflagration of color.

Remus shivered with dread when he heard the snatch of Phoenix song carried on the last October wind.

 

2.  
There was no time for grief. A funeral party would have made too easy a target; black stood out like fire these days, drawing unwanted eyes, unwanted questions. 

Even the world's favored son was not allowed to attend. Remus told himself that Harry would not have remembered it; he swore to remember it for him.

They were buried without pomp or circumstance. As though there were no one left to mourn.

He was alone. When Dumbledore asked him for reassurances, he gave them readily. There was no love left in his heart.

It was in too many pieces for that.

 

3.  
"You knew Mr. Black."

"Most of my life, yes."

"Did you know that he was the Potters' Secret Keeper?"

"I suspected, though he never told me as much."

"Did you, at any time, suspect that Mr. Black might be working for the Death Eaters."

"..."

"May I remind Mr. Lupin that he is compelled to answer this court truthfully."

"Yes."

"Yes, you suspected him?"

"Yes."

"We believe Mr. Black may have had accomplices, other spies, other agents. Do you know of anyone outside yourself, Mr. Pettigrew, and the Potters with whom Mr. Black was friendly?"

"No."

"No romantic affiliations?"

"No."

 

4.  
He would not admit that he was running. Running from what, he would have asked. Nothing left to run from.

But the memories chased him, clung to him like his shadow. Every carefree laugh he heard reminded him of unruly hair and mischief; every baby's cry recalled a mother's love and the son that would never know her face. Every small sound in the walls was reminiscent of the quick, sneaky boy who wasn't quite quick enough.

Every motorcycle passing, every confident smirk lit the fire of anger in his heart that burned away the ashes of whatever might have been.

 

5.  
Remus accepted the tea in the delicate china cup and wrapped his fingers around it, grateful for its warmth.

"I am glad you would see me," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling with what, in anyone else, Remus might have called mischief. "I was not certain you would."

"When someone comes half way around the world to call for tea," Remus said dryly, "it would seem rude to refuse."

"How are you, Remus?"

"I can't complain."

"Can't? Or won't."

"It amounts to much the same thing."

Dumbledore smiled. "And you've been keeping yourself busy, I take it?"

Remus nodded, his expression guarded as he sipped his tea.

"Eleven years is a long time to be away. You must tell me sometime of all your adventures."

Remus shrugged his narrow shoulders and turned to stare out the window. "Nothing much to tell," he said quietly. "Nothing worth remembering."

 

6.  
He’d smoothed his fingers over the memories so often it was little surprise to find that time had worn thin beneath his palm – that the space between then and now had shrunk to a breath, a footstep, a glance. He walked the familiar hallways with purpose, pressing determination deep into each step lest regret catch him by the hand and tug him aside. 

Mischief, Moony. We’ve plans. Such sodding great plans! . . . 

The fugitive echo of laughter hurt less here, with snow piled against the windows and a folded blanket as protection against loss.

 

7.  
He hated that the cloak was borrowed. He hated that the shoes were borrowed and the food was stolen and the blankets tattered and the clothing torn. Remus could see it in his eyes even as he spoke his thanks for the paltry gifts. 

The cave was filthy, cold, and rank. It smelled of dog and bird and horse and excrement and sweat and fear. Remus hugged his arms to himself and watched Sirius warily as the other man stalked around the cave like a caged animal. He did not admit to himself that he was watching for madness, a twitch here, a laugh there, a glance that seemed out of place.

"It's good to see you," Sirius said gruffly, and Remus wondered if it was true. The words rang in his ears long after he had gone back to his flat and warmed him long into the cold night.

 

8.  
"You can't even look at me!" Sirius exclaimed, leaping from his chair to pace the floor.

"I am looking at you," Remus protested. In truth, he was never not looking at Sirius; even when his eyes were closed that face was there.

"You're wearing your mask," Sirius growled. "Your Remus mask, and I can't see past it."

Remus' stomach still clenched when Sirius said such odd things. He jumped suddenly as Sirius threw his mug and it smashed in a shower of crockery and tealeaves against the far wall.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was on his feet, arms reaching, fingers grasping, touch electric and dangerous. "Shhh..." he murmured. "I'm here."

"You're hiding."

"Never."

"You went around the world to hide from me, even when I was nowhere."

Remus swallowed painfully. "What could I do but run?" he asked. "And, yes. I looked for a place to hide. But there was none."

His fingers strayed, betrayed him, reached up to brush that hollow cheek, that soft black hair. "I could never hide from you."

 

9.  
"You were all I had," he admits in the darkness of the nights he does not sleep.

Remus' fingers tremble as he clutches at the sheets. "Sirius, forgive--"

"Don't. Don't ask me that," he says in weary tones. "We're beyond all that."

"I still," Remus falters. "I can't believe that you came back. To me."

"You led me back," Sirius whispers, his fingers tangling in silver hair. "You were my guiding light, my hope, my..."

"Map?" Remus asks, as fingers trace the road of memories down his spine. 

"My treasure," Sirius answers. 

 

10.  
"I must have loved you," Remus says with hazy realization. His limbs are heavy with pleasant exhaustion, his mind thick with thoughts that swim in and out of focus. 

Sirius snorts against his collar bone, nuzzling up closer beneath his chin. "You just figuring that one out?" he asks.

"Don't mean now," Remus says, wrapping his arms more tightly around his Sirius and sighing. "And I don't mean then, either."

"Then what do you mean?" Sirius asks lazily, tracing his fingers down Remus' side.

"I mean..." Remus begins, then falters. All those years. All those nights spent railing at the silent stars. Anger and fear tainting all that had been good. Every laugh questioned, every smile in doubt. And yet, somehow, through it all...

"I must have loved you..." he murmurs into Sirius' hair. "And that is all that matters."


	5. Rebirth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Rebirth  
> Author: lacylu42  
> Prompt(s): Day Three (see below)  
> Rating: PG-13 (for language)  
> Summary:   
> Out in the woods of autumn! I have cast   
> Aside the shackles of the town, that vex   
> The fetterless soul, and come to hide myself
> 
> \- from Autumn in the West, by William Davis Gallagher

When Remus opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is the sunlight through the shifting canopy of leaves over his head. He stares, fixated, at the morphing shapes above him; the twisting colors like yellow embers and the blood-red glow of the leaves' dying days.  
  
He is cold, but not terribly so, and sore, but not broken. His brain is still wrapped in the thick and fuzzy of the night before, but the worst complaint it can muster is a stone lodged uncomfortably in the small of his back. And, of course, that he has no idea what has happened.  
  
There is something warm pressed to his side, and when his fingers (fingers! moving! not broken or bloodied--) dare venture to investigate, they find a thick tangle of black fur and a warm, soft belly, snuffling sounds, and a pair of velvet ears that twitch when scratched, caressed.  
  
A shift, a blur, a momentary rending of reality and a hand moves to cover his, moving fingers to intertwine with those more familiar than his own. A quick squeeze. A secret gesture of companionship.  
  
There's a rustling? Sirius sits up, then, taking off his jumper and laying it over Remus' bare shoulders.  
  
"Oy, Peter. Where's that blanket we -- ta mate."  
  
Warmth then, and with the warmth comes memory -- memory of a massive black dog, a towering white stag, and the rustling of a rat in the undergrowth.   
  
Where had the animals come from again?  
  
"Look! I mean he's hardly even bleeding. Those are just scratches from the -- Remus? Remus, can you hear me?"  
  
Remus turns his head and there is James, leaning down over him, grinning like a fucking idiot, and suddenly Remus has an image of of James with antlers.  
  
"It worked! I cannot fucking believe that it actually worked--"  
  
"I told you it would work."  
  
"Oh, shut the hell up. You were just as scared as we were..."  
  
"What?" Remus manages. He can't believe that he can speak. Normally his throat is raw, his voice no more than a whisper, but right now he's breathing and smiling and -- even laughing? No broken ribs? No broken--  
  
Sirius puts a warm hand on Remus' back and helps him into a sitting position. Peter is sitting near his feet wearing the most ridiculous grin Remus has ever seen, and James is pacing, waving his arms. _Pontificating._  
  
"By the gods, lads, we have made _history_ this day. We have laughed in the ugly spotted face of fate and spat on his shiny black shoes. We've broken the chains of mere mortals and soared into the stratosphere unfettered even by the realm of dreams!"  
  
Sirius' hand is still pressed against the bare skin of Remus' back and he is wearing this manic expression that is somewhere in the no-man's land between worry and glee.  
  
"Alright?" he asks quietly.  
  
And it is all Remus can do to nod. He is still not entirely sure what has happened, but he is whole and James is still talking, and Peter is rolling around in the leaves laughing as Sirius helps him to his feet and they are walking -- _walking!_ \-- back to the shack, back to the castle, where he will not spend days in hospital, will not miss class, will not miss his mates or even one second of his life more.  
  
The light is like liquid gold. It filters down through the jewel toned leaves and Remus tilts his head back to drink it in.


	6. Knowing the Timing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested fic of James and Lily's first date.

It was, in the end, simply a matter of timing. Indeed, the Potter-Evans dance had lasted nigh on six years now, but in the end, someone had to bow out. It was only a matter of hitting the steps in time that neither dancer would end looking foolish.  
  
Of course, the fireside confessional on That Night -- terrible Night of Nights, when the world was filled with the worst sort of Black, and the walls fell down, and his entire reality had begun to fray horribly around the edges, threatening to split right at the seams -- that didn't hurt any either. That she had been there, when he needed an anchor; that she had been willing to be his rock in the emotional maelstrom of That Night; that she had somehow convinced him, just by being, that the sun would rise again... He knew it was enough for him.  
  
Thankfully, it seemed, she knew it too.  
  
Hogsmeade seemed to him (Conquerer of the Seven Secret Ways, Lord High Admiral of Honeyduke's Cellar, Master of the Invisibility Cloak, and Sworn Protector of the Map) a tad plebeian now, but he experienced it anew through her emerald eyes. He wondered at how he could have become so jaded by his secret forays into the town.   
  
If the smell of fresh chocolate wafting out of Honeydukes held no novelty for him, having smelt it a hundred times before, he could delight in her smelling of it fresh for the first time. If the Post Office walls, lined with cubbies, filled with feathers, cacophonous with hooting held no marvel for him after the debacle of the failed attempt to mail every student at Hogwarts a personalized Howler, then he could marvel in her amusement. And if the taste of a hot Butterbeer sliding down his throat after a long walk in cold and drafty lanes of the village had lost its wonder for him somewhere amid all the gallons he'd downed, then he would borrow her wonder, for there was more than enough for two.  
  
And even while she was busy surprising him with every turn of her head, every quirk of her lips, every glint of her eye, he somehow managed to surprise her as well. He caught her watching him, when she thought he would not notice, caught her smiling when she thought he could not see. What she did not know was that he knew her better than anyone ever would, ever could. He knew her every in and out and only ever wanted to know more.  
  
But he knew other things now too. He knew about pain in a way he never could have dreamed, knew fear, knew blood and horror and "Holymerlinholyfuckholygod--"  
  
He knew he had grown up.  
  
A bit.  
  
And so, it seemed, she knew these things too.  
  
He did not try to kiss her when she slipped her hand into his. Neither did he whoop or scream for joy that he had _won_ \-- finally _won_! Because he suddenly realized that it wasn't a game any more.  
  
This wasn't a chase 'round the Quidditch pitch, a yank on a pigtail, a punch on the arm. This wasn't an ink-spitting quill, nor a stolen brassier, nor a portrait trained to croon crude lyrics whenever a red head passed.  
  
This was real. This was strong and fast but right and a little bit green with flecks of brown and exciting and new but oh so solemn and even a tiny bit tingly. Round about his elbows. Possibly the lobes of his ears.  
  
It wasn't a game, this thing they were doing, this life they were living.  
  
And somehow, it seemed, she knew it too.


	7. Attack of the Zombie Bears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 1. Coke | 2. A black tie | 3. A teddy bear | ~1,000 words | PG 
> 
> James accompanies Lily to Petunia and Vernon's wedding.

"I'll be ready in five minutes." Lily kissed his temple distractedly and made her way towards the bathroom fiddling with one of her earrings.   
  
James looked around the bedroom with an odd feeling creeping into his belly. He'd been in Lily's bedroom before, of course, when she was grabbing her coat or applying lip gloss or doing some other unfathomable girly thing.   
  
James tugged at the black bow tie currently trying to suffocate him and wondered why he was so bloody nervous. He _had_ been in Lily's bedroom before, but it had never looked quite so... Foreign. Otherworldly.  
  
Not wanting to touch anything that might break or explode from his mere proximity, James gingerly made his way to the little twin bed covered in what looked like a homemade quilt. Bed he could understand. Quilt made sense.  
  
There was, however, a large assortment of furry things living on the bed that he couldn't quite wrap his brain around.   
  
They were all sorts of strange colors and shapes with large shiny dead eyes and permanently frozen smiles. James tentatively reached out and poked the nearest one -- a vaguely bear-shaped creature with yellow and pink fur. It toppled over and fell off the bed. Scrambling to put it back where it had been, James thought fondly of the telling off his own childhood teddy bear would have given him if he'd done something so careless as let it tumble off the bed. He should never have taught it all those dirty words.  
  
"James?" Lily called from the bathroom.  
  
"Nothing!" he said, hastily shoving the lifeless bear-thing back into place amid the others. They all stared at him with their wide glassy eyes. He shivered and turned away, tugging at his collar.  
  
"I was just going to ask what you thought of your tux," she said. He could hear the smile in her voice.  
  
"Oh, er..." He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror hung on her closet door and turned to look at himself more clearly. Running a hand through his hair, he shrugged.  
  
"I like the racing stripes on these trousers."  
  
Lily laughed from somewhere in the depths of the bathroom.  
  
James took another few steps towards the mirror. "What do you think? Do I look like a proper Muggle?" he asked it, buttoning his jacket and then unbuttoning it again, running his fingers over the odd ruffles on the shirt. "Or a ponce in a pirate shirt?" The mirror chose not to reply. "Very diplomatic," James said to it wryly.  
  
To his left was Lily's desk. It was small and painted a rather too cheery shade of yellow, but on it were things he could relate to, things he could understand: quills, parchment, several bottles of ink, and even a copy of the Standard Book of Spells, Year Seven. But there were other things as well. Books he did not recognize, one in a sparkly purple cover with a tantalizingly tiny little lock on it, more terrifying stuffed creatures, the little wooden pencils Lily was known for wearing behind her ear, and a red cylinder with the words "Coca-Cola" written across it in appealing script. James recognized the latter at once.  
  
"Can I have a drink of your soda pop?" he asked. For a moment, Lily said nothing, and James wondered if he might have been wrong about the name; it was a bloody stupid name for a drink, after all.  
  
"Yeah, sure," Lily called back. "But it might be flat."  
  
James picked up the can. It wasn't flat at all, but still perfectly round. "No, it's fine," he said. He sniffed the rim of it, put the can to his lips and took a long swig.  
  
At which point something went terribly wrong. The drink was trying to climb up his nose. Horrified, he coughed and sputtered until the ghastly tickling sensation went away. Hastily, he set the can back on Lily's desk and moved to the opposite side of the room, tugging at his bow tie once more. He was going to have nightmares about this room, he was sure of it.  
  
Just then, Lily emerged from the bathroom. She looked stunning in a long green dress that brought out her eyes and the highlights in her hair and all at once, all thoughts of zombie teddy bears and murderous beverages were driven out of his brain and all he could think was something along the lines of, "Guh."  
  
Thankfully, some higher brain function took over and what he actually managed to say was, "You look beautiful."  
  
Lily shot him a very sweet smile, which did things to his insides that he had previously not known were possible, as she picked up her bag from the bed and put her wand into it.  
  
"You're bringing that?" James asked as she came to take his arm.  
  
"Of course. Didn't you bring yours?"  
  
James shook his head. "Your sister told me that I had to be on my best behaviour and that troll of a fiance of hers threatened to call some people named Bobby if I did any 'funny business'."  
  
Lily laughed. "Don't tell me you're afraid of Vernon Dursley? He's just frightened by things he doesn't understand."  
  
"Yes, well a list that large would frighten anybody," James huffed.  
  
Lily stopped in the little hallway outside her bedroom to close the door, and she muttered a simple locking charm before turning back to look at James.  
  
"You don't have to go if you don't want to," she said quietly, reaching up to straighten the bow tie he seemed to be determined to rend askew.   
  
He caught her small hand in one of his and pressed her fingertips to his lips. "You want me to go," he said simply, "and I'd do anything for you."  
  
Lily smiled and kissed him, murmuring her thanks against his lips.  
  
"Even brave the horrors of the zombie bears and the popping soda and wear pirate shirts and pants with racing stripes and..."  
  
Lily's laughter rang out into the night.


	8. Your Aim Is Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ( a pair of shoes that doesn't fit | stale bread | a kiss | 1,100 words | R (for language) )

The shoe that flew across the kitchen narrowly missed Remus' head. Sirius watched the other man's knuckles go white as he gripped the handle of his chipped coffee mug more tightly, but Remus did not look up from his newspaper. Sirius scowled and got ready to hurl the other shoe.  
  
Remus glanced at him momentarily as the second shoe whistled past his ear. "Your aim is off," he said, turning his attention back to the newspaper spread out on the table.  
  
Sirius growled unhappily under his breath and rose from the stairs, shuffling across the kitchen in his stocking feet. He considered kicking Remus' chair as he passed, but the pain hardly seemed worth the effort.  
  
 _Is this how you're going to live your life, now?_ he thought angrily at himself. _Rating everything in terms of the amount of pain it will cause you?_ He imagined that those were words that Remus might say to him if he ever let on what was going on in his head. If Remus ever said bloody _anything_ besides, "How's Harry?" and "Pass the toast," and "Your aim is off." If Remus ever took any interest in anything besides his _fucking_ newspaper.  
  
Sirius slammed the cupboard door rather harder than was necessary and watched out of the corner of his eye for some reaction from Remus. There was none.  
  
He tore into the loaf of bread with venom, the bread knife a conduit for his frustration. Hacking off a slice, he picked it up and then threw it back onto the board. Slamming the heels of his hands against the wood of the cutting board, he pushed it noisily back into the wall.  
  
Remus smoothed out a fold as he turned over a page.  
  
"This goddamned bread is stale!" Sirius shouted into the newsprint rustling silence. "How does he expect us to live like this? Stale bread and water is good enough for the prisoner, is that it?"  
  
Remus didn't reply.  
  
"And my shoes don't fit!" Sirius continued, aiming his vitriol at the whorl of Remus' cowlick. "They're too small and they pinch my toes, but does anyone care? Does anyone think it might be a good idea to let a grown man pick out his _own_ clothes?"  
  
No answer was forthcoming.  
  
He slammed his foot into the kitchen cupboards and swore colorfully at the blossoming of pain. _At least this is real,_ he thought.  
  
"I hate this goddamned fucking house. I'm going mad in here! I didn't stay sane all those years just to let my bloody family... This is more of a prison than Azkaban ever was, and he _knows_ it. We all know he knows it and yet we just go on, bobbing and scraping and doing what we're told because we're all so fucking sure that he knows what's best." He was panting now, his breath coming in short painful gasps. His lungs still hadn't quite recovered from years spent in the cold and damp. But he couldn't stop. Now that he had started it was like pouring alcohol on a flame; nothing would stop him now.  
  
"He doesn't know anything," he hissed. "If he were half the man he claimed to be he'd have some balls and let me out of this hell hole. I'd find the rat in less time than it takes to say, 'No, Sirius. Down. Stay.' I'd tear him to pieces and then who the fuck cares? They can lock me back up for the crime I was supposed to have committed all those years ago.  
  
"Harry doesn't need me. He's got Saint Dumbledore to look after him -- and a fat lot of good that's done him. Kid's more fucked up than even I was at his age. And they won't even let me _near_ him..."  
  
Remus had still not said anything, but Sirius could sense a change. His head was no longer bowed over the newspaper like Sirius was just static, white noise coming through on the wireless. Now his shoulders were tight, muscles bunched. Sirius fancied he could even see the muscles in his neck clenching and unclenching as Remus ground his teeth.  
  
"And you!" he continued, his insides seething at Remus' indefatigable calm. "Since when did you just roll over and take it? 'Yes, Dumbledore.' 'No, Dumbledore.' 'Whatever you say, Dumbledore.' You're a fucking _werewolf_ for chrissakes! Did Snivellus neuter you with that goddamned poison of his?"  
  
The chair exploded back from the table and Remus was on his feet in an instant. Sirius was glad. He wanted to have something to fight, wanted something to fight back. He wanted to hurt and be hurt, because that was the only thing that seemed to make sense any more. If he kicked the cupboards his foot would hurt: cause and effect, one plus one, a logical series of events. This he could deal with. This he understood.  
  
He braced himself for Remus' fury. The man wasn't quick to anger in the same way that a volcano isn't quick to erupt; it lies dormant for years, decades even, before erupting and massacring thousands of villagers in its wrath. Somewhere, in the back of his brain, Sirius hoped he could be counted in the collateral damage.  
  
But the fury did not come. It was there in Remus' eyes. It was there in the clench of his jaw, the tightness of his sallow skin, and that was when Sirius suddenly realised that Remus was here too.   
  
Remus ate the stale bread without complaint. He wore shoes that might have been the right size, but were worn so thin on the bottom you could practically see his toes. He lived in the house that wasn't his cross to bear.  
  
Sirius' anger wavered like candle's flame in a draft.  
  
Remus sighed and closed his eyes, as if he too had suddenly sensed Sirius' epiphany in those fleeting seconds. When he opened his eyes again, they were clear and steady, the fire of anger tamed into a productive light. The volcano would lie dormant still; the villagers were saved. He took another step forward and smoothed back Sirius' hair with one hand, placing a chaste kiss on his forehead with dry lips.  
  
"I'm sorry," Sirius said quietly, the well of shame in his gut threatening to engulf him even more completely than the anger had done.  
  
"It's alright," Remus replied quietly, turning, righting his chair and settling back down to his newspaper. "I understand... Your aim is off."


	9. Hermione Granger and the Hogwarts Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Hermione | The Hogwarts Boys | 1950s Hepburn/Russell-style screwball comedy | 1,005 words | PG

Hermione sunk down onto the ottoman and put her face in her hands. She wondered vaguely if Harry might be persuaded to find her a brandy; she had a feeling she was going to need it.  
  
"There _was_ a leopard," Ron repeated, apparently thinking she might not have heard him the first time. She stared at his knees, unable to look up into his guileless freckled face. The cuffs of his trousers were stained, and his shoes were covered in mud. He'd lost his jacket somewhere along the way, and his maroon suspenders looked absolutely ridiculous with that brown suit.  
  
"Well, two, actually."  
  
"And a dog."  
  
"The dog came later."  
  
Hermione had given up trying to tell which twin was speaking at any given time. It was utterly impossible when they got worked up like this, stumbling over one another's sentences, finishing each other's thoughts. One was in blue, the other in grey, but she couldn't have told which was which for all the tea in China.  
  
"She doesn't care about the bloody dog!" Ron shouted, exasperated with his brothers.   
  
"How," Hermione interrupted, gathering her strength, "does the leopard figure into this travesty?"  
  
"He came with the magician," Harry offered. She glanced up at him and noticed that he was mercifully holding out a tumbler of amber liquid. He was in his shirt sleeves, his tie loose about his neck, fringe sprawling down into his eyes in a way that meant he was certainly a party to all this hooliganism, but she accepted the drink he proffered anyway.  
  
"It was a very nice fair," Neville put in. Across the drawing room, he had settled down at the piano and was picking out a little tune. As much as he was a part of the gang, he also was not, usually just along for the ride, and more than willing to let the others have the limelight, especially when it came to the elaborate pantomime of excuses and blame. "They had an organ grinder with a trained monkey."  
  
Harry had moved back to the drinks trolley and was fixing three identical whiskey and waters for Ron and the twins, heavy on the water (because all she needed was for the Hogwarts Boys to have even _fewer_ inhibitions) and a mint julep for Neville.   
  
Hermione tilted her head back and took a long and terribly unladylike drink when she thought no one was looking. Frankly, she needed the fortification.  
  
"I _told_ you that card shark was no good. Masters at poker my arse!" He glanced at Hermione, his ears turning pink. "Beg pardon, love, but they--"  
  
"How were we to know--"  
  
"--that a Muggle would be better at cards than us?"  
  
"I still say he was--  
  
"--cheating. Absolutely."  
  
"And my father's car?" Hermione asked, venturing into the fray.  
  
Ron at least had the decency to look appropriately ashamed of himself. "In the river," he admitted, his shoulders sagging as if he were once again twelve years old and looking forward to being docked house points. "But I'm sure we can levitate it out."  
  
"Course we can."  
  
"No trouble at all. Especially if Harry--"  
  
"I want nothing to do with it," Harry said vehemently, passing Neville his drink. "You lot have already got me in enough trouble. What am I going to tell my Sergeant when I report for training Monday morning with no broom? 'I'm sorry Sergeant Moody, but the Weasley brothers said they could improve it. We suspect it may be somewhere over the mid Atlantic by now.'"  
  
"Oh it's hit land already for certain."  
  
"My money's on Africa."  
  
Ron dropped down to his knees in front of her and took one of her hands in both of his. The pads of his thumbs were rough, but they felt nice somehow, rubbing little circles on her palm. Their hands stood out starkly against the navy fabric of her skirt; hers pale and slender, and his too large, and too rough, and covered in a comforting smattering of freckles beneath the fine red hairs.   
  
"I'm sorry," he said softly, his enormous eyes pleading with her, welling with such real remorse that she couldn't help but feel her frown softening. "I am sorry. It was all my stupid fault. I should never have let the twins convince me that--"  
  
Hermione couldn't stand to listen to any more of his excuses and fanciful tales; in the past ten years she had learned that most, if not all, of Ron's outrageous stories were true. But listening to them still gave her a headache. Instead, she cut him off with a swift kiss.  
  
The look on his face when she drew away was utterly comical and worth a dozen automobiles sunk in the river.  
  
"Ronald Weasley," she said in her best annoyed voice. "I cannot go on being your girlfriend like this any longer, so you had better hurry up and make me your wife."  
  
The stunned silence that followed was by far her favorite part. From the corner of her eye, she could see Harry lifting his glass to her. He understood, of course, that she was, and had always been, the only one who could keep the Hogwarts Boys in any kind of order.  
  
"My w..." Ron repeated, sounding even dimmer than usual. His eyes had gone strangely glassy. Hermione merely smiled.  
  
With an appalling war whoop, the twins grabbed Ron by either arm and hauled him to his feet, taking turns shaking his hand so vigorously that his entire body wobbled and talking so quickly that it was difficult to tell where one of them left off and the other began. Neville was up from the piano, passing around a box of cigars and grinning like a maniac. Ron still looked as though he wasn't entirely sure what was going on.  
  
Harry fortunately chose that moment to approach with an offer to pour her another drink. Hermione returned his smile and accepted. She had a feeling she was going to need it.


	10. Real Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Real Magic  
> Rating: G  
> Words: 300 -- a Trabble =)
> 
> In my head, this takes place in the same universe as my fic, Hair of the Dog.

"It isn't real magic though," a tiny boy said. Remus hadn't noticed him until he spoke. He was slight and wiry, with a thick shock of black hair that curled round his face in a cunning sort of way, and he was of an age where the difference between real and make-believe begins to mean a lot. "I mean," he continued earnestly, "it's just conjuring tricks, innit?"

Remus continued to fold the handkerchief he'd been using before replacing it in his pocket. A few straggling members of the small crowd his tricks had drawn inched forward to place a penny or two in his hat lying on the sidewalk, and he inclined his head at them in thanks.

"What do you think?" he asked in his best stage voice.

The boy frowned at him curiously. He rubbed his toe in the dirt. "Dunno," he said finally. "My da says magic isn't real. He says it's all smoke an' mirrors an' hooey."

Remus had to smile at that. "Well that's fine," he replied playfully, "but I didn't ask what your da thought."

The boy wrinkled his nose at him and drew in a breath as though he wanted to speak, but the words were slow to come. "I..." he said at last, a bit uncertainly, "I'd like to think it were real."

"Then do," Remus replied simply, scooping up the worn fedora from the pavement and carefully picking out the coins from its lining. "There are lots of things in this world that only exist when you believe in them. Magic. Friendship. Forgiveness. Even love." 

He put his hat on his head, tipped it at the boy, and began to walk towards the other end of the street fair. He reckoned there was enough light left to do one more show.


	11. Let It Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Let it Be.  
> Rating: PG  
> Words: ~1,200  
> Disclaimer: He's not mine, but his angst is. The lyrics are also not mine, but I borrow them when it seems poetically appropriate. Also, a bit of a story disclaimer: if anyone knows any reason why the date is incorrect... I don't really care. It worked because it's today and 'cause of the "holiday." So sue me. =)
> 
> Summary: Remus listens to the soundtrack of his life through the walls of his flat, and marks the passing of another year, the passing from one life into the next. Also takes place in the same universe as my fic, Hair of the Dog.

15th February, 1984

 

It had been raining for days, long enough that Remus wasn't sure it would ever stop. He slogged through the puddles from the bus stop to his building, and shook his umbrella just inside the door. Slowly, painfully, joints creaking from the moisture and the harassment they had to endure as he stood on his feet all day, every day, he made his way up five flights of stairs to his flat. Barely a flat, really. A "studio" they called it, because they didn't want to simply call it a room, and studio made it sound artistic. But the bare walls and cracking plaster made him feel completely artless and mundane.  
  
The door opened with a click when he inserted his key. He set his grocery sack atop the apple crates that he had stacked by the wall. They served as cupboards, table, and writing desk, when he felt so inclined, even as an ice box when he bothered with the charms. The contents of the bag clinked invitingly as he set them down.  
  
Through the paper thin walls, he heard the door of the next room open and shut. A girl lived there, he knew. He'd never seen her, but he'd heard her speaking several times, and even heard her singing once. He walked across the room to the mattress in the corner, kicking his shoes off as he went, flopping down onto it, listening to the springs creaking beneath him as he listened to her moving about next door. She always made tea as soon as she came home; he knew because he could hear the kettle, could hear the spoon against the tea tin, knew she only used one scoop of tea -- probably to conserve the leaves. He knew that she took either sugar, or milk, or both in her tea, because he could hear the clink of her spoon against the cup as she stirred it. The walls were that thin.  
  
He had gone to the shop near his bus stop with the intention of buying something to eat, but the sandwiches and tins of soup had turned his stomach. He turned his head to glance at the paper sack sitting near the door.  
  
The girl next door was humming. The song was something low and sad. He didn't recognize the tune.  
  
He turned his head to the wall and stared at the little paper calendar he had stuck there. It was the cheap kind you get free from banks and drugstores; Remus couldn't remember exactly where he'd picked it up. He hadn't owned a calendar in almost two years, but somehow, when the holidays came around and he knew it would be a new year soon, he had suddenly wanted to have one.  
  
Now he wished he didn't.  
  
There was a scraping of chair legs across the floor from the next flat, and Remus felt himself sigh and relax slightly, as he knew what was coming next. Funny how other people's routines made him comfortable.  
  
The first few notes were tentative, but pure; the piano was badly out of tune, especially at the high end of the register, and he had spent hours upon hours wondering how she had managed to get it up the stairs, but every day, around the same time, the girl next door would sit down and play. She liked jazz, and classical, the old standards, though he had several times recognized the melody of a song played on the radio as she cautiously picked out the tune.   
  
She played carefully, conservatively, as though she had only a certain number of notes and no wrong ones to spare. Her repertoire wasn't vast, but varied enough so that she could always find a tune to fit her mood.  
  
The strange thing was that her mood and Remus' often seemed to match.  
  
He remembered the night several months ago when he'd earned an extra hundred dollars picking up a second shift at the diner where he bussed tables when one of the waiters unexpectedly quit. He'd come home to "I've Got the World on a String," and several choruses of "Happy Face."  
  
Just a few weeks earlier, he'd woken late in the afternoon after a particularly difficult change to the peacefully sad strains of "Moonlight Sonata" played heartbreakingly slow.   
  
He wondered what she would play for him tonight.  
  
At first she just picked at the notes, barely even making a tune, as though she herself couldn't decide what mood to be in. Then there was a chord that was more certain, and another following it. A melody began to emerge, soft and sweet over the bass notes, and Remus felt his heart climbing steadily into his throat.  
  
He looked back at the calendar. February 15th. Slowly, he forced himself into a sitting position, still staring at the little white square under the photo of a snow covered barn.  
  
 _And in my hour of darkness, she is standing right in front of me... Whisper words of wisdom..._  
  
He tried to remember what he'd been doing last year on this date, and couldn't. The year before that was a complete blur, and he'd written it off as repressed memory that was repressed for a reason. Still, it seemed odd that two years had passed without him even realizing, without him even marking the occasion.  
  
The last 15th of February that he could remember had been spent in Hogsmeade; an orange colored day filled with warm fires, warm butterbeer, and a desperate attempt at normalcy. He wondered, now, if their happiness had been compromised even then, and he felt the familiar anger building inside of him that always followed. It wasn't fair that those last days of love and laughter should be tainted now by doubt. It was the final injustice in a string too long to remember...  
  
 _And when the brokenhearted people living in the world agree..._  
  
All his second chances had been used. He'd come to that conclusion somewhere in the year he'd walked the world like an animated corpse. He'd gone over in his mind all the second chances he'd been given prematurely, and tried to decide which he would trade for one more now, when he needed it most.   
  
Remus stood abruptly and crossed the room to the grocery bag. Unceremoniously he unrolled the top, removing a bottle of whiskey. He took a glass from one of his apple crate shelves and opened the bottle, pouring himself a large drink as he hummed along with the tune. She was playing more confidently now, sure of herself, and of her choice.   
  
_For though they may be parted, there is still a chance that they will see. There will be an answer._  
  
Remus cleared his throat, and turned back to the calendar stuck to the cracking wall. He stared at it for a long moment and then lifted his glass.  
  
"Happy birthday, Sirius," he whispered, before draining the glass and pouring himself another.  
  
 _There will be an answer._  
  
Let it be.


	12. Remus Toes

Remus lay quite still against the starched linen sheets of his hospital bed, staring into the darkness that stretched into eternity behind his eyes, and concentrating on breathing. It was warm. He pushed one bare foot out from under the sheets to bask in the warm spring air. Too warm to be cooped up in the hospital wing, that much was certain, but Madam Pomfry had never let him out without at least twelve solid hours of bed rest, and he doubted very much she was going to suddenly change her mind today. Even if he had come in that morning with little more than a few scratches, most of those from errant tree branches rather than wolf claws.  
  
A soft breeze blew across his face from the open window, and he opened his eyes just a slit to see who had come in. He was met with the sight of two grey eyes staring at him over the foot of his bed.  
  
"You awake?" Sirius asked in a theatrical whisper. Remus felt himself smile.  
  
"No," he replied, closing his eyes again. Suddenly he gasped as something warm and wet started sucking on his pinky toe. His eyes shot open.  
  
"What are you doing?" he laughed as Sirius continued to purse his lips in mock concentration and lick each of his other toes in turn. "Stop it! That tickles!"  
  
"You have," Sirius said between licks, "cute toes."  
  
Remus laughed again, squirming slightly. "You're daft."  
  
"'M not," Sirius replied, kissing Remus' insole so that he let out a loud belly laugh and almost kicked Sirius in the face before clamping a hand over his mouth. Sirius smiled at him wickedly as he abandoned his toes and began slowly climbing up onto the bed with him. Remus raised an eyebrow at him.  
  
"What are you doing?" he asked again.  
  
"Making you feel better," Sirius replied matter-of-factly as he stretched languorously half on top of Remus and half beside him in the narrow hospital bed.  
  
"And where," Remus asked, trying to remain practical as Sirius slowly drained his practicality away with the tips of his fingers and the ghosted kisses of his lips. "Where is Madam Pomfry?"  
  
"At lunch," Sirius whispered, his voice deep and warm against Remus' ear and the small hairs along his neck.  
  
"Oh," Remus managed to reply. "Oh..."


End file.
